


Painted Windows

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst, Bible verses, Christianity, Churches, Existential Crisis, Gen, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort, Mourning, Probably ooc, Spiritual Confusion, philosophical talks, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-25 21:54:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16669009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: After the death of his grandfather, Stan Marsh struggles to understand his own role in the world. He's spiritually confused and mourning in secret with the help of the Bible. So, he journeys to the local church to try and find some solace in a place he never felt truly welcome.And, when all suddenly seems hopeless, Kyle comes to his rescue.(AKA - Stan and Kyle have a conversation about religion in a church at four in the morning.)





	Painted Windows

Stan never felt at home in a church. Father Maxi always advocated the fact that it was open for all who chose to enter, of course, and Stan knew that; he just didn't feel welcome. It's a silly notion, of course. How could he, raised as some weird, unpracticed version of a Christian(?), feel ill at ease when inside of the very place so many families similar to his own worship?

When he was a kid, he pushed his discomfort on the fact that he was naive. Further, he pushed it on the fact that religion always felt wholly adult. The maturity of it was stifling, and although he had experienced many different tastes and facets of many different religions and beliefs, Stan had been so uncomfortable with the notion of being written off as unworthy by anyone who he chose to talk to, that he instead decided to stay silent.

From the many existential crises he had dealt with, all the way to the societal pressure to “just leave it be”, Stan felt like he couldn't take it anymore. The pressure that had been pounding down on him since his childhood built. It built, and built, and built, and _built_ until _finally_ he felt like he would _snap_.

A time came in his life where he sat behind the school with a group of his peers, pulling weak cigarettes and blowing smoke towards the church. They experienced the opposites of all rules they could think of, broke and fractured everything they thought they knew was correct. Then, in the midst of it all, mortality slapped him in the face and told him to “wake the hell up”, and suddenly, he was ridden in constant guilt.

The place of worship, the house and dwelling of the most holy figures, the church – Stan had defiled it. Not in physical legitimacy, but in the thought of how much importance it held. He had stomped on the mental image until it became something that he could never take seriously. The age of the twenty-first century had fucked up his experience of something that, if he had been born just ten or twenty years earlier, would have undoubtedly been an integral part of who he was, or would have been.

Ignorance was the true motivator for his one-eighty. He spent most of his sophomore year on the internet, searching for prayers and information on how Christianity worked. He downloaded a “Bible App” on his phone, and read the book of Genesis in the last week of school. At his worst, he would begin to cry at the very thought of Psalm 23. At his best, he would forget about the spiritual demons he was wrestling, just for a little bit. He could take it at face value, just for a few hours. Sleep became his best friend, until he had nightmares about burning in hell for his confusion.

Because, ultimately, that's what it was. Stan was confused, so he was afraid.

And so, ultimately, that's how Stan would answer. He had gotten past the point of lying for the sake of “saving face”, or whatever else people like him tried deceiving the universe in the name of. He had lost the ability to fib his way out of himself. He was tired.

He had come here, to the church, way too early on a Saturday morning, because he was afraid.

With every blow of the early summer wind, the old building creaked just a little harder. The pew underneath him groaned at every shift of his weight. He couldn't remember when he had leaned forward to the back of the pew in front of him, but at the time that he did, it clicked gently with the effort of trying to support a poor man's arms. He crossed those arms, gripping his elbows with the opposite hand, and rested his head atop his forearms. His closed eyes were pressed against the fabric of his sweater. The grey material was thin, worn with age and overworked in its use; it spoke louder than his mouth ever could.

It was there, sitting not dissimilar to a speck on one of the many pews, that Stan tried his best to reach solace. As his brain tried to understand the concept of catharsis, and as his arms became sorely numb under the press of his skull, he lowered his expectations from those of a newborn to those of an elderly man. His brain reeled through the generational shocks of peace. And just as much as his brain tried to relax, he couldn't help but think about how his _grandfather_ was _literally not even fifty feet away from him_. Generational anxiety paired with the generational shocks, and Stanley was so aware of the graveyard in the back of the church, that he could hardly breathe.

The sun was coming from somewhere outside, and it was shedding light through the stained glass of the windows. Blackened out crosses hung in suspension in the purple and pink, reds bathed in blue. Poetry had never been Stan's forte, nor had he ever taken the time to appreciate it. Was it offensive for him to admit that the text in the Bible felt like poetry? Was it offensive to admit that he was trying to heal a wound with scripture and psalms and was it _offensive_ to admit that _it wasn't working_?

“ _The Lord is my Shepherd_ ,” Stan recited on a whim. “ _I shall not want._ ”

_Is it offensive,_ Stan wondered, _to recite this at four in the morning?_

“ _He maketh me to lie down in green pastures._ ” Stan sniffed wetly. Gravity and emotion was causing his nose to leak and his eyes to water. “ _He leadeth me beside the still waters._ ”

_Am I even allowed to be here?_

“ _He restoreth my soul_.”

Stan remembered hearing those words for the very first time from a priest when he was eight. He remembered being confused then, too, though he had to admit it was for a different reason. For the life of him, he couldn't understand the gravity of what had happened to his great-grandfather. He knew he had died of lung cancer. His parents told him on a Friday (which temporarily ruined Fridays for him). Randy got down on his level, his hands on his knees and his face close to Stan's own, and he said, “Stanley, great-grandpa died last Friday,” in the softest voice he'd ever heard his dad use.

“ _He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness –_ ”

The first thing Stan said to the news was, “no.” It wasn't so much a denial of what had occurred, as it was a knowledge of the obligation to _feel_ something about what he was just told. His dad was almost on the verge of tears, and he could tell that it had taken a lot for him to say it. The truth was, Stan didn't feel sad at the moment he was told his great-grandfather had died. He felt guilty, though. He felt guilty, because he was too young to understand the gravity of someone in his family dying. It wasn't until recently that he began to feel pangs of grief deep in his soul. They burned in his heart and ached in his chest.

“ _– for his name's sake._ ”

Stan's lungs began to hurt when he sniffed again, the heavy air of the church hurting him.

“ _Yes, though I w –_ ” Stan breathed in. “ – though... though I walk – ”

All at once, his brain tipped over and covered his shoulders in thoughts. He heaved through the discomfort. Every hiccuping sob drew him closer to the tightness in his airways, cracking his voice every time he tried to warble his way through Psalm 23:4. He wanted to wail. He wanted to scream, and he wanted to double over and mourn Grandpa. It was all he could do not to.

“ _Yes, though I walk through the_ – oh, please, for the love of – ”

Stan drew another sharp, dry breath.

“For the love of all that's holy, _stop_ ,” he begged. He just wanted to pull himself together _this once_. Was that honestly too much to ask? His face was already red and ruined from crying so hard through the thoughts of his great-grandfather. He was already too messed up over the first loss to deal with the recent loss of Grandpa, too.

Stan tugged his arms out from under his head, letting his forehead drop against the pew before him. Copies of the Bible stared him in the face, a macabre reminder of where he sat. Though it felt all too raw and harsh, he lifted his head and snatched the book up from where it lay, his fingers thumbing through the pages frantically.

“ _Yes, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil,_ ” he hissed between his teeth. His lips trembled with the continuation, “ _for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me._ ”

Proverbs 3:5.

“ _Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies._ ”

Proverbs 14:5.

“ _Thou anointest my head with oil._ ”

Proverbs 16:3.

“ _My cup runneth over._ ”

Proverbs 27:6.

“ _Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever._ ”

The search was in vain; he found not what he searched for. That, he recognized, was even more harsh than the offense of his own interpretation of the Bible. He feared his own hands, which made hasty work of the pages before him, stroking the words with heavy fingertips. He withdrew his heart from his chest and thrust it so forcefully into the Bible that he couldn't shed the desperate hell he had wrought inside of himself.

He cried in feverish sobs. Only one thing stopped the tears he bore from drenching the pages, and that thing was his sweater. These words in his hands felt like gibberish. They meshed in his mouth and danced the way a ghost would. His truth was worried into his cheeks through bite marks and blood. It tasted of copper and malice. It tasted of blind belief and being desperate. It tasted disingenuous, yet his teeth tore through and bit more roughly than he had ever known himself to. He trusted it the same way he trusted the ground he stood on; he had known it so long, he could never believe to question it.

But why was he questioning the existence of religion? If he had grown up around it for so long, yet forced it back into his basement like a tortured soul, why was he so terrified of what it might make him become? Why was he so afraid of what he believed, and why did he want to tear his hair out from frustration? How could he get through the rest of his life if he couldn't even understand his beliefs when it came to God?

Stan rocked himself into calm. He clutched the open book to his chest, doubled over on himself. The gentle dust that caked through the air stroked his hair and rubbed his cheeks free of tears. The church offered him a false sense of solace. His broken head gobbled it up and pressed itself back together for the only reason he could imagine. If he sat there in the pew, the church dark with morning, he would surely go insane.

He sat there until his chest no longer hurt. He sat there until his heart no longer thundered louder than his father's snoring. He sat there until he felt peace, and he sat there even longer still, because he knew he had yet to feel peace.

He sat there, in the very least, until the doors to the church slowly snuck open. The thin little mouse of a boy that ducked through the doors was wary of the place, too, though he was wary for a different reason. Over his shoulder, he gripped a small backpack full of the things that made him feel bigger than the world.

Stan didn't move when they sat next to him. They gently swished their rucksack over their shoulder and dropped it to the floor, hands working deftly to press against Stan's quivering shoulders. In the bones of their fingers, this new boy felt the nervousness that came with being somewhere new and unfamiliar. Contrary to Stan, he knew he was allowed; he just didn't feel a link.

He, Kyle Broflovski, rubbed his thumbs and palms carefully into the muscles of his friend's back. Those muscles still bent around the Bible Stan had clutched so very desperately to his chest, and although he wasn't entirely certain of the message, Kyle made sure to let him feel connected to the text.

Minutes passed in the church. With every passing chip of time, Stan unfurled slower and slower from around the Bible. He slowly recovered into an upright position, chin tipped down towards his clavicle in an attempt to feel it deeper in his soul. The pages had bent. He felt guilt again, shuddering a grievous, silent cry. The resulting breath allowed Kyle to understand.

Kyle drifted his hands away from Stan's back and inched them to the Bible. He gingerly worked it from Stan's grip, shutting it respectfully and replacing it in the back of the pew before them.

“Hey,” he said, ducking his head to get Stan to look at him. He backed off when Stan disobeyed; watched as his best friend scrubbed the wet from his eyes. “Hey, are you okay?”

Stan only shook his head.

“What's wrong?” Kyle prodded.

Stan's swallow crackled louder than his voice. Kyle held him up when his spine tried to bend in on itself again. “I'm lost,” he whispered. “I'm so lost, Kyle, and I – I don't know what to _do_.”

Kyle's brows dipped in pity. “That's okay,” he said. “It's okay to be lost – ”

“ _No_.” There Stan was, flashing back to being eight years old. The hushed voice of his father echoed in his ears, _Stanley, great-grandpa died last Friday._ “No, no, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Stan said. “Because this is something that everyone is so _sure_ of. They're sure of it from birth, because they grow up with options. They grow up with it.”

“Grow up with what?”

“Religion. It sticks with you. People are born into families who have it or don't. Kenny grew up with parents who acknowledged it, and he acknowledges it. Butters grew up Christian, he hasn't changed. You grew up Jewish, and you haven't changed – even _Cartman_ has had his shit together since he was a kid. What does that make me? My parents raised me borderline atheist. I know zilch about this stuff. I don't know where to start. Why am I so _bent_ on the idea of religion? Why do I feel like I'm _supposed_ to have this in my life?” Stan clutched the sides of his sweater. A wave of nausea rolled over him as he faced his deepest confessions. He only sobbed harder as he said, “I feel so bad. I feel like an imposter.”

Kyle's jaw slackened, lips parting slightly to reveal his teeth. The red and green mix of Kyle's hair and hat respectively bore the idea of Christmas into Stan's mind, and that only made him feel worse.

“You're not an imposter,” Kyle said. “You're just finding yourself.”

“I don't feel like this is something I should have to find myself in,” Stan replied. “I don't feel like I belong here, but at the same time I do. I don't get it. I don't get it, and I'm afraid that deep down, I'm just lying. What if I don't actually believe? What if I'm just curious – and then I'd just be taking up space in a place where no one _wants_ me, anyway. I don't know who to talk to.”

“Well... you're talking to me right now, aren't you?” Kyle asked. “Maybe I could help.”

Stan felt like he may have accidentally come off as rude when he said, “how?” but Kyle didn't seem affected.

“I'm not exactly a stranger to religion and spirituality, Stan,” he answered. “Believe it or not, I've been in your shoes. Obviously I haven't struggled very much with, like... _Christianity_ , but... it's the same sort of issue between Judaism and Atheism, I think.”

Kyle offered a small smile. Although every inch of his body was telling him to stop while he was ahead, he couldn't help but feel hopeful for the offer of help. As if to accept without saying it, he whispered, “I just don't know what – or... _who_ I'm supposed to believe.”

Stan watched as Kyle pressed his lips together firmly, a pale line being created in place of the natural parting of his mouth.

Finally, he spoke.

“Y'know,” Kyle hummed. “I think that's the beautiful thing about it. You're not technically supposed to believe anything. I mean, sure, you'll have the odd person trying to convert you to Christianity, or whatever other religion – or, in my case, you'll have people trying to persuade you to stay where you are, but – Stan, I don't think you realize how _lucky_ you are to have been born in a family that doesn't really care.”

“I don't _feel_ lucky,” Stan scoffed.

“Of course you don't feel it right now,” said Kyle. “But, think about it for a second. Your parents are super chill, and if you decide to follow Christianity, they won't mind. If you decide to continue being agnostic, they still won't care, because nothing has changed. You don't even really have to follow anything for certain. You can study religion without being religious, y'know. No one's gonna yell at you.

“I know this is super confusing, I've been there. Heck, I almost died there. It feels like everything is against you, it feels like everything in the world is opening up, it feels like the entire _universe_ is a lie and you're just a pawn, waiting for existentialism to come and swallow you up like some really messed up foreign horror film, but – …” Kyle swallowed his next words, choosing instead to look Stan in the eyes. In the darkness, it was difficult for them to see each other, but the message Kyle finished with was enough to help Stan dip his hand into normalcy. “But it'll get better. It'll take some time to understand why things happen, of course, and it'll hurt to come to the realization of what you believe. It'll be _really_ hard at first, to learn everything you need to know about whatever you decide to follow, but... but I believe in you, dude. As long as you're a good person, it doesn't matter. You can believe in whatever you want to, as long as you trust and believe _yourself_ first.”

Stan didn't know if Kyle's words were what helped him feel better. For all he knew, it could just be his conscious letting up on him, forgiving him now that he had found someone to vent to. The points his friend made were slightly scattered, but the premise he proposed was easy enough to follow. He felt reassured, if not slightly overwhelmed by it all. Stan released a shaky breath, sniffing through the emotions that built up in his system. “Can I be brutally honest for a second?”

“Duh,” Kyle replied lightheartedly. He nudged Stan, and Stan nudged back.

“I...” Stan rubbed his palms together, feeling the ache of mildly uncomfortable heat stick to his skin. “I'm honestly terrified that, if I _don't_ believe in like, God and stuff, that I'll truly burn in hell.”

Before Kyle could reply, Stan quickly continued.

“I mean – I know, it sounds stupid, but... I don't know, man, I just don't really want my soul to be tortured for all eternity, y'know? And I think that's why part of me is so skeptical of it all. Like, hypothetically... if we're all made in the image of God, and God truly wants us to believe in Him, why... why would he make people who don't believe in him? Just to shake things up a little? Why would he send anyone to hell? To test us? And, I mean, if he _is_ real, I don't know if I would want to trust a God who _is_ like that.”

“Like what?” Kyle asked.

“Like – cruel. Why would God judge based off of one little thing, even though a person is made up of so much more than whether or not they were religious? If it's all based on religion, why do we even have a sense of morals in the first place? Why would we be able to judge the character of people if he doesn't give _us_ the same courtesy?”

“Yeah... I have no idea, dude, I can't answer that. It’s probably something to do with the individual will of mankind.” Sheepishly, Kyle itched at the back of his neck. He turned his gaze away momentarily, his eyes deflecting the light of the many stained windows in the church. “Can I be honest with you, now?”

Stan twisted his face up curiously. “Sure?”

Kyle tipped his head, looking Stan in the eyes. Pieces of light glittered in the dark iris and pupil, ushering in a sense of newfound clarity. “I don't think anyone has any idea what the hell is going on.”

Stan laughed.

“No, I'm being totally serious,” Kyle insisted. “I mean, think about it. There are so many religions in the world, and there are so many people who follow those different religions, and so many people worship the 'leaders' – ” he performed air-quotes “ – of their religion like they themselves _are_... y'know. Him. The only thing that sets half of those people apart from those leaders is an official education, an outfit, and good public speaking skills.”

Stan laughed again, and this time, Kyle followed.

“See?” He said through chuckles. He nudged Stan's shoulder once more, giggling harder when Stan halfheartedly returned the gesture. “It's not so scary when you can laugh at it.”

“I guess you're right.”

“Of course I am.” Kyle's cocky tone only caused more laughter. When they both calmed down again, he slumped against the pew and breathed a steady stream of air through his mouth. A stray, curly red lock of hair bounced with his huff.

The quiet settled over them like a blanket which they huddled underneath. It took them back to being children, curling underneath the sheets and sneaking flashlights with them to read or draw. The sounds of feet in the night would make them click off, curl and press their hands to their mouths to stem off the giggle of their little secret. The calm, lightheartedness of it all was nice. It helped Stan feel a little more at ease with the idea of believing in things – or not believing in things, as it might be. And just as such, he felt a little more ease with the idea of mortality. Whereas before he had been terrified to sleep, frightened of being pulled from bed and forced into a hellish underground, he was now... more okay with living life as it were, rather than as it could be.

“Hey, Kyle?”

“Yeah?”

“How did you know I was here?”

“You're a really loud crier.”

Immediately, Stan flushed. “I – _what_? You could hear – ”

“No, dude, I'm kidding.” Kyle said. “I didn't know you were here, honestly, I just saw your bike outside and decided to check it out.”

“Oh.” Stan tugged his sleeves into his palms. “Why were you – ”

“I couldn't sleep, so I took a walk.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They were silent again. Grief still tugged at his lungs, but it was bearable this time around. His fingers itched to grab the Bible and read passages, but he felt like that was a little desperate – especially now that Kyle was sitting right next to him. It felt almost disrespectful, in all honesty. Christ. He missed Grampa a lot. The hurt burned in his eyes like little pinpricks of loss. This time, Stan didn't try to push it away. He allowed himself to feel upset by mortality and illness. He chose not to acknowledge the loss fully, though. He wasn't prepared to think too much on the permanence of it.

He glanced over when Kyle said, “I don't think you should follow anything out of fear, Stan.”

Stan was quiet. He could feel Kyle's eyes on him more than he could see them.

“Fear takes the fun out of the mystery of existing,” Kyle muttered. He scuffed his shoes against the floor of the church. “We're all already afraid of death, why should we be afraid of life?”

“Yeah,” Stan said. “Thanks, by the way, for talking some sense into me. Also, I'm sorry you had to see me, like... _literally_ having an existential crisis.”

Kyle let out a soft hum. “Don't mention it, I'm just glad I could help out.”

With one final nudge to Stan's shoulder, Kyle stood from the pew. The rucksack was over his shoulder in a matter of seconds, and he looked about ready to head out. Feeling a little reluctant to say goodbye, Stan responded in kind. Kyle gave him a weird look.

“What are you doing?”

“Going home with you, I'm totally sleeping at your place tonight.”

“Well... I _did_ just boot up my old PS2,” said Kyle. “You wanna give it a whirl? For old times?”

“Duh, who do you think I am, a heathen?”

**Author's Note:**

> i needed to vent, and it turned into 4k words of something kind of sweet, i guess. or maybe not. it helped me process. idk. it's late.
> 
> comments / feedback / constructive criticism; all is welcome! (goodness, im almost too tired for exclamation points, haha)
> 
> cheers :)


End file.
